


bless those tired eyes

by aiineslin



Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Espirit de Corps, Friendship, Gen, implied depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:53:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28376511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aiineslin/pseuds/aiineslin
Summary: jean wakes up, he gets on the metro, he goes to work and he executes his duties, he goes home and he gets into bed and he does the whole thing all over again.month after month. week after week. day after day.he doesn't pull a harry. (until he does.)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 16





	bless those tired eyes

**Author's Note:**

> honestly i was just really sick of having this lying around so i added a few paragraphs to tie it together and shoved it out  
> it's been languishing in my files since last year, out ye go

He wakes up to darkness disturbed by white light pushing through moth-eaten curtains and he could almost weep – daylight is upon him and he has to get up from bed, to crawl into his human skin (badge and clip-on tie, because the last time he wore a Windsor knot was when a snatch-thief almost choked him to death) and make his way down to the Station.

  
( _Why not just do a Harry_ , his mind suggests, traitorous voice.)

  
Life – many things – will be infinitely easier if he pulled a Harry, but he cannot. Really, he cannot.

  
( _Really_ , the voice is deeply sceptical.)

  
Really.

  
He crawls out of bed and he opens the curtains, letting sunlight in. In the stark brightness of the dawn, his room is once again awful and grimy and altogether absolutely terrible. 

  
The interior is largely made up of a bed with a lumpy mattress and two-months old dark blue bedsheets with an overly-large antique wardrobe shoved into a corner of the room. There are opened cardboard boxes scattered throughout, the contents denoted with a thick, heavy marker.

  
He will stop living out of cardboard boxes today, he will unpack when he comes home tonight – Jean tells himself as he picks his way methodically through the mess. (He can walk through this makeshift maze blindfolded now, if need be. It is a talent. Really.) 

  
The bathroom has mould spreading steadily across its pale green tiles, and there is a small roach clinging to the bristles of his toothbrush. When he inspects the cup in which he keeps his toothpaste, he finds another small roach.

  
He needs – Jean tells himself as he flicks the roach off the toothbrush with an irritable shake of his wrist – to change his toothbrush, because he’s been using the same brush for six months, and he needs to buy new toothpaste, because he has been making every little pathetic squeeze of paste count for the past week.

  
His flat is silent save for his movements, the ordinary sounds of a man preparing himself for the day. The batteries in his Grace Tabletop had went flat a few weeks ago and Jean had yet to replace them. He had woken to silence, prepped for work in silence and when he comes back home, he spends his nights in silence.

  
He needs to do many things with this flat, he knows. To live like this is to chip away at the remnants of his humanity, dignity (not that he has much of those left after years in the RCM but -)

  
But for now, for today – he cleans himself up, puts his tie on and clips his badge to the inside of his coat and dumps the awful, fake, ratty wig (Harry doesn’t recognise him with this monstrosity on, what the fuck) into his briefcase. 

  
For a second, he stares at the over-sized sunglasses on the table – the sunglasses that McLaine had given him as a joke, “It’s the accessories that make a disguise,” he had cackled. 

  
After a moment’s thought, he slides them on to his face. 

  
Rue de Belleville is noisy in the mornings, the narrow street packed with the flow of pedestrians heading out to their work. It takes fifteen minutes to walk to Belleville station, and when he arrives, he realises he has to walk to another station – because some poor fuck had tripped down the too-steep steps and broke something important, a guess made from the cordoned off entrance and the swarm of paramedics descending into the station.

  
So he adds another sixteen minutes to his walk (god, the sun is so hot, the sunglasses keep sliding down his sweaty nose – _you are so disgusting, Jean_.) and when he arrives at the Métro, the crowd looks even larger than usual, because all the usual commuters who got on at Belleville has crammed themselves into Diderot Station. 

  
He finds himself pushed all the way to the utmost corner of the train when it arrives. He stands awkwardly, his briefcase handle cutting into his hand as the train bumps and sways away. As it rumbles along, Jean puts his head against the dirty, smudged glass of the train window, and he stares out of it. 

  
There’s not much to see. Diderot Station is ten stops away from Jamrock Station and the entire commute takes place underground. It is grey cement, occasionally brightened up by vulgar graffiti and strange ad placements, but they are mostly the same things that Jean have seen day in, day out on his trip from home to work, and from work to home again.

  
When the crackling voice of the driver finally calls out Jamrock Station, Jean’s briefcase has cut bright red lines into his fingers. He watches the crowd push its way to the doors, surging out of it. When the initial burst of commuters is gone, there are only a few people left on the train.

  
The minutes pass. The hanging straps swing gently, following the rumble-rocking motion of the train. A woman looks up from her newspaper with a start, and makes a dive for the doors before they close, clattering noisily against each other. He watches as her red skirt is caught in the doors, and she yanks at it wildly, tearing it out of the door – scant moments before the train comes alive with a jerk and pulls away. 

  
_(Fuck are you doing?)_

  
Jamrock Station falls away into the distance. The station is replaced by the familiar grey cement walls of the train tunnels.

  
Jean finds a seat and slumps down in it, closing his eyes.

  
***

  
“Minot!”

  
“Yes?”

  
“Where’s Vicquemare?”  
  
“He isn’t here.”  
  
Eyes turning simultaneously to one of the many clocks that dotted the walls of the station. 10:36AM.  
  
“That ain’t right.”  
  
“It is right.” Judit’s voice is the coldest Torson had ever heard it. “He'll be heading to the Whirling straight from his apartment today.”  
  
“Is he?”  
  
“So why are you here?” McLaine had joined the questioning.  
  
“I’m,” Judit snatches up a few folders, papers spilling out of them. She sweeps them back into the folders, willy-nilly. “Collecting some files so we can go over them while we’re in the Whirling.” Somehow, she manages to look down her nose at Torson and McLaine, even though they were taller than her. “It’s efficient. And now, I go.”   
  
So saying, she dropped the folders into her bag and swept out of the bullpen.  
  
A beat.  
  
“Vicquemare pulled a Harry, yeah?”  
  
“Minot’s on it.” The rasp came from Gottlieb, trundling past them with a newspaper tucked under his arm. “Let them be.”  
  
Another beat.   
  
“And now,” mimicked Torson. “I go.”  
  
McLaine’s hyena laugh could be heard through the bullpen.

  
  
***

  
  
A knock on his door.  
  
He turns his head and stares at it.   
  
Perhaps it will go away.   
  
The knock sounds again, and there is a note of insistence to its steady rap.  
  
He rolls out of the sofa and staggers to his feet, a curse already rising to his tongue. His big toe catches on the carelessly tossed briefcase on the floor, sending him staggering forwards a few steps. The curses boil up and out of his mouth.   
  
And this is how he flings open the door: “Fuck do you want? It’s fucking 12PM, fuck on out of here and get a fucking job -”  
  
He stops.   
  
It is Judit, and she is staring at him, her brows slightly pinched together, the only disturbance in her carefully placid face.   
  
“Judit. Uhm.”  
  
“Good afternoon, Satellite Officer Vicquemare.”  
  
They have dispensed with formalities since Judit’s first month. It did not make much sense, after all. Policework enforced familiarity and C-Wing is far, far too small to carry on continuously with proper addresses. (And, there are so many syllables to Sa-te-llite Of-fi-cer.)  
  
“Good afternoon, Judit.” he says. “I thought,” he says, and he let his mouth run away from him, because this is Judit and his bullshit-generator came to a screeching halt when it came to dealing with this earnest kid. “I thought I would. Stay at home and clean it up a little.” He jerks his head at the interior of the small apartment. It is obvious it is a rental, from the flowery wallpaper to the chintz sofa. “It’s been a few months since I’ve moved in, and I haven’t unpacked. I’ll call in with a request for urgent leave with HR later, god knows I need to use up my annual leave…”  
  
He is babbling, the words tip-tumbling over his tongue and teeth and he is quite unable to control his mouth. ( _What the fuck are you talking about who the fuck takes LEAVE when their boss is out kicking up shit halfway across the city and fucking up a murder case why are you so bad at lying what the fuck_ )  
  
“It’s okay,” Judit looks quite uncomfortable. A backpack strap had fallen halfway down her shoulder. “I told them you went straight to the Whirling from home.”  
  
“Without my car?” There is no hidden barb in the question, but it finds its mark in Judit’s flinch and her widening eyes – that her lie could have holes. He follows up quickly, “Good thinking, though. I don’t want to walk past McLaine’s ugly face any more than necessary.”  
  
His terrible attempt at comfort does appear to work; she relaxes a little, the tension in her shoulders easing.  
  
They stare at each other for a moment too long.  
  
“… Judit, what’s that in your backpack?” It looked distressingly heavy.   
  
“Files.” She reddens. “I told the others I was at the office to grab some files, so we could read them over in the Whirling. So we could be. Efficient.”  
  
(He was the shittiest shitkid in the universe, a shit cockroach made out of shit.   
  
When he pulled a Harry, he left Judit alone in the Precinct, to leave her sitting amongst the empty desks with no warning, when Jean is known for always being early to work.)  
  
“Fuck,” says Jean. “Fuck.” He looks at the sun behind Judit. It had hit its zenith, and the heat of the sun warms his skin. “Did you take the Métro?”  
  
Judit blinks. “I had to. I can’t sign the car out because it’s under your name, and, uh - we’re not partners in the system.”  
  
“Of course. Fuck.” He massages the bridge of his nose. Malaise has robbed him of common knowledge too, it seems. He makes his decision then; he stands aside and opens the door even further. “Come in. Put that fucking bag down. Let me make you a cup of, of… I think I only have Chestbrew coffee, that’s a little strong for you – no?”  
  
“Oh, that’s fine,” says Judit, stepping into the flat. She looks at the briefcase on the floor; the clasp had burst open and ratty blonde peeps out from between the frames. Jean closes the door and sprints pads over, scooping the briefcase into his arms and dumping it on to the low coffee table. It slips a little to the side; there is a wad of cardboard under the shortened leg of the table, but it still remains at a slope. Judit looks around the flat, and Jean follows her gaze. There are cardboard boxes everywhere, some are opened, many more are left unopened.   
  
“Er, how do you take your coffee?”   
  
“Sugar. As much as you can, please.”  
  
“I, uh…” Jean’s voice trails off. “I don’t have… much sugar on hand.”  
  
(He doesn’t have any, in fact.)  
  
“It’s, that’s fine.”  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
“It’s okay…” The silence in the flat grows ever more uncomfortable.   
  
And Judit blurts out, the words erupting out her in a massive rush - because that was about the only way they could ever come out (because she was unlike Harry or Jean, she took her time, plotted her slow, steady way through deliberate thought) - "Can I help you unpack? We have time today, anyways, and everybody thinks we're at the Whirling, I love unpacking stuff, putting them away and making them neat - the point is, maybe I can help you unpack? Maybe?"  
  
Jean blinks. Judit blinks back in return. The silence rushes back, filling the vacuum the well-meaning babble has left.   
  
(But Judit has iron in her bones. That's why she lasted.)  
  
It is Jean who looks down and away first. "Yeah. I. That would help a lot. Thank you."  
  
“OK, where do we begin.” says Judit. She takes off her Patrol Officer jacket and she carefully drapes it across the sofa chair. Beneath it, she is wearing a lemon yellow shirt that has the words LIVE LOVE RUN printed in pastel pink.   
  
He blinks at it, and Judit feels compelled to say, “Ma bought it for me. It’s very comfortable.” And she dares him to continue the sentence with the most minute jut of her chin, and Jean drops his gaze and he nods – because yeah, mothers really do buy the darndest things, do they?  
  
“Kitchen, maybe,” he says. Because there is the smallest number of boxes in there, because he Does Not Fucking Cook (because he is an animal, with very little life skills despite the number of years weighing his shoulders and bones and soul down).   
  
“OK. Kitchen it is.” Judit enters the kitchen with Jean trailing behind her, looks at the sad, lonely cardboard box sitting there on the shitty, linoleum floor.   
  
She says to herself, “OK.” And she steps forward, removes an extremely large multi-purpose knife from her pocket and swipes the tape keeping the box together into half. Opens the box, peers into it, and removes two plates, two spoons, two forks and two mugs. There is a kettle, the electrical cord wound up tightly on itself, and a nearly expired pack of Chestbrew coffee. The bin is the most populated area of the kitchen – it is filled to overflowing with takeout and dirty plastic utensils. A fly zips around it in a lonely spiral.   
  
“Don’t you have anything else for your kitchen?” It isn’t a question, it is a confirmation, and Jean shakes his head.   
  
( _This is a mistake, the voice in his head says._ _Oh god. Now she knows that if I had to make coffee for her, I'd have to unpack my kettle. Who doesn't unpack their kettle? Who?_ )  
  
He is standing in the doorway of his own kitchen, and he feels terribly, awfully out of place in his own house ( _it’s not even yours, you fuck, it’s a rental and you don’t have a house at your age._ )  
  
“OK.” She repeats again. Judit puts the utensils away, sets the cups down beside the sink and opens the cupboard to –  
  
A fat cockroach darts out and away, scurrying over the purple doors.  
  
Judit sets the Chestbrew coffee in it and closes the cupboard firmly.  
  
Jean notices a shudder spasming her fingers.   
  
(“Fuck!”  
  
It is the first time they hear Judit swear, and as one, they turn to stare at the Patrol Officer, who had stopped quite a few feet away from them.  
  
There is a massive swarm of roaches blocking the path.  
  
Harry steps forward, stomps on it and says, “You’re scared of insects?”  
  
“All insects,” Judit had said gloomily, taking a wide berth around the smushed roach.)   
  
“One room down,” she says, and she places her trembling hands firmly on her hips. “Yay!”  
  
He cannot help it, he snorts out a laugh, and Judit joins him, and together they are laughing – their mirth echoing around the small kitchen – until Jean feels his belly ache and he is very surprised, truly surprised indeed – to feel small beads of tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.   
  


  
***

  
  
They are efficient together. It is perhaps, Judit is dimly aware, that it's a breach of regulations to help your superior officer around the house. What sort of regulations they are, she didn't know, but probably something to do with fraternisation - not that, frankly speaking, anybody paid attention to those anyways. Judit cuts through the taped-up boxes with efficiency, and Jean, once he fell into a rhythm, is able to find places to put his things. They work and work and work, and when dim evening rolls around with sunset rays lighting through the windows, it is then did Jean's belly loose a massive grumble, reminding them both that they had pretty much only drunk a cup of coffee for the entire day. 

Judit glances around. They agree silently, unanimously.

“I know a teahouse down Diderot,” Jean tells her. He straightens his back, wipes his dusty hands down on his jeans. “Bit of a walk from here, but they make good har gao.”  
  
Judit nods. Walking is fine, anything is fine. 

Once out into the streets, Judit draws a deep breath, inhaling the smog of motorbikes and cars inching their crowded, slow way back home in rush hour, the wordless grumble of a crowd. As the sun began its downward arc, its rays lit golden and warm through the shambolic buildings, following them as they moved through the crowd, heading for the teahouse.

They snag a seat near the front door - the waitress slash boss recognises Jean, puts them ahead in the line despite grumbles. Judit defers to Jean in the orders, and he makes them without even looking at the menu, the waitress doesn't provide one or write down the orders, anyways - she simply nods, popping her gum between her lips, and steps away when he is done. 

She offers him a pack of Astras (which he knows she despises, much preferring Venusian Menthols). 

They sit and they smoke and Jean says, “I owe you.”

“You don't, Jean." Judit fiddles with her thumbs, her hands locked around her mug. She looks nervous, worried, but she still spits it out - "Harry isn't back." _You can’t go too._

He feels sorry for her.

(Poor kid, being assigned to the worst department across all the Precincts, having to act as the living emotional crutch for a Satellite Officer who was supposed to guide her, to being under the most erratic Lieutenant when all she ever wanted to do was be a cool cop and catch bad guys – a confession dug out from her at one of their drinking get-togethers when Harry is sober enough to crawl up the stage and sing -)   
  
“I know. I'm sorry." The words are mud, ugly in his mouth. He looks at Judit, and he blurts out, "What the _fuck_ , Judit. He fucking doesn’t remember me.”  
  
And there it is, a whimper of a thought, bitter and shrunken in its jealous misery. He thinks Lieutenant Kitsuragi is a cool partner. Cooler than Jean. And he’s right, Lieutenant Kitsuragi’s cool-headed precision when it came to work has spread across precincts.  
  
He knows that – Harry is a wreck, a shadow of a man held together by alcohol and caffeine and nicotine and the howl of the city burning through him – and that in this time, in this current moment, he does not figure out to be much in Harry’s life, he is nothing more than a shadow in the ruins of Harry’s mind.  
  
But it does hurt, to know that he is second even in this, in police work, when he has been beside Harry all these years. ( _God, you fucking suck, you fucking shitkid._ \- he doesn't know who he is addressing, him, Harry, both?)  
  
He feels a hand on his shoulder - Judit doesn’t say much, she has admitted that she is a bad speaker, but the sympathy written across her face speaks volumes and Jean knows that she knows that he prefers it that way, that any condolences would have fallen on deaf ears, and he would have felt so embarrassed that she had seen right through his neediness, but he is still pleased – pleased that she recognised it and he runs a hand through the grease of his hair and says, “I’m sorry.”  
  
“Don’t be,” Judit says quietly. “It’s been a long few days.”  
  
“It really has,” Jean says. He stubs the cigarette out in the ashtray, watches the little pillar of ash crumble. He turns his gaze to Judit. He lifts his hand up, covers Judit's with his own, and pats it roughly, once, twice. “Thank you, Judit."  
  
Her face gentles into the saddest of smiles, and well - Harry has a new partner - a temporary one, permanent one, who knew what went on in that worm-ridden brain of his - nobody ever said Jean couldn't nab one of his own, right? 

**Author's Note:**

> small headcanons:  
> \- judit has accumulated a fair amount of respect within the 41st because have you seen what she puts up with on a daily basis  
> \- (she has also once apprehended a criminal by drop-kicking him.)  
> \- it was really fucking cool. harry cried tears of joy. jean didn't cry but he bragged about it so much that gottlieb told him that he would put laxatives in his coffee if he didn't stop it.  
> \- jean is never late - he is, in fact - always in 15mins early. in stark contrast to harry's laissez-faire attitude towards punctuality (and any other thing resembling workplace professionalism), jean is a veritable bastion of professionalism within c-wing. he had to be.  
> \- in stark contrast to his potty mouth and general demeanour around fellow cops of the same rank, jean is a master when it came to administrative work. he knows the ins and outs of bureaucracy and his well-crafted memos are things of legends.  
> \- he is professional, when he has to be. he is never late. remember that.  
> \- he's only ever late when he pulls a harry. the whole precinct knows this, and tends to avoid him in the week after he arrives late for work.  
> \- the last time he was late, harry was the one who went looking for him. nobody knew what went down, but they came back together with busted up faces and bleeding knuckles.


End file.
